


at the bottom of everything

by asexualizing (Specialcookies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, But also, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, FIx It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Insecurity, M/M, PTSD, Scars, bottom line they are in love bye, i guess, missing months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing
Summary: He wakes up in a hospital bed to see John sleeping in a chair that was dragged to his bedside. They don’t talk about it. John stays, and stays, and stays, and he keeps on staying after Sherlock’s sent home. They don’t talk about it, he’s just back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this like...just after season three and suddenly had the urge to finish it so here you have it.

He wakes up in a hospital bed to see John sleeping in a chair that was dragged to his bedside. He’s not peaceful, nor content; there’s a line of distress between his eyebrows. Sherlock nearly reaches out to smooth it over, fingernails digging into his own flesh to stop himself from doing so.

Then John wakes up, a throaty _Sherlock_ rolling out of his mouth, and there isn’t enough morphine in the world at that moment. He blinks at Sherlock, clears his throat.

“You’re up,” he says, straightens in his chair like he’s suddenly uncomfortable.

Sherlock hums.

“I’ll call the doctor.”

They don’t talk about it. John stays, and stays, and stays, and he keeps on staying after Sherlock’s sent home. They don’t talk about it, he’s just back.

*

He can say it’s everything he’d ever wished for.

John walks around the flat as if he’s never left, and Sherlock watches him like he’s never wanted anything more than that.

The truth is, it’s horribly painful.

*

"Sit down," John says, calm, authoritative, and holds Sherlock's hand, taking the beaker out of it, carefully, as if it's not empty at all.

The tremors started about a minute ago, and Sherlock's been trying to ignore them to no avail. John finally noticed. He tries to calm his heart as John lays a gentle hand on his back, directs him out of the kitchen, and Sherlock lets him, just hoping he'll stop touching him.

"It's fine." He's not sure if he's trying to reassure John or just shake him off.

"Sit down," John repeats, and Sherlock does. John's hand on his shoulder, sliding away. It's really rather absurd Sherlock wants it back, suddenly.

John puts the beaker back in its place. He’s with his back to Sherlock when he says: “It’ll take time.”

Sherlock wants to rip his own throat in half.

*

Sometimes he thinks about telling John. Not everything, of course, just about Florence, perhaps, or Moscow if he'll feel up to it. About Budapest if it's the right mood. Serbia.

John would hate them, the stories. He'd clench his jaw and fist his hands. He'd be the violent kind of silent. He'd wonder, if not out loud, why Sherlock is telling him now, why Sherlock went and did that, why he wasn’t there. And Sherlock would revel in his anger and will tell him how beautiful Paris is at night when you're trying not to bleed to death on the cold pavement. How he missed the city. How he missed him. How --

It's a ridiculous thought.

They spend their evenings in their respectful chairs, in silence that is interrupted occasionally by a trivial question ( _have you eaten? do you need another dosage? are you finished with this? tea?_ ), reading, usually, and Sherlock thinks about it. About spreading out the one case John never wanted to hear detailed to him. About talking. They don't talk. John doesn't talk. Sherlock doesn't know how to fill up silences anymore.

He thinks about it, but it's the same as thinking about John’s fingers trailing down his neck, the same as thinking _I love you I love you I love you_ ; it’s all in his head.

*

His wound is healing nicely. John manages his morphine and Sherlock lies about the level of the pain on a regular basis; "One to ten scale, what number?" John asks. Sherlock says it's a four. The truth is it's closer to seven. But John's living here now, and Sherlock needs to think straight.

It's leaving its mark behind. Sherlock doesn't let John see it, and John looks at him as if that's all he wants to do. He opens his mouth to say something snarky when Sherlock goes to his checkup at the hospital instead of letting him do it like he used to, but what comes out is: "Tell me what he says. Every word of it."

Sherlock doesn't. John can't be focused on this. 

"Perfect." And John gives him a look that says, _I swear to God, if you're lying..._ But he doesn't press.

_Guilty_ , Sherlock thinks, _you feel guilty._

And then, _don't do this, don't do this, don't do this, don't --_

*

It's two in the morning and John's gentle steps sound in the flat as he comes down from his room. It's so loud Sherlock stops thinking about anything but it.

He doesn't notice Sherlock, or maybe he doesn't want to notice him, sitting in his chair with the violin in his hands, not playing, just holding it, running his fingers over the strings.

John goes straight to the kitchen and the moon lights him in silver. Sherlock stares. John picks Mary's drive up, turns it in his hand.

"You want to know," Sherlock says, making John jump and drop the drive back on the table.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he curses. Sherlock can hear him breathing.

"You want to know," he repeats.

"I -- No, don't do this."

"She saved my life."

*

He doesn't know if he believes himself.

*

In the mirror the scars look strange, like they aren't his. He doesn't remember them the way they are. It bothers him, that he can't be precise, so he tries to look but --

Sherlock shuts his eyes.

*

"We're having a child."

"Yes. You are."

*

They dance around Mary's name like it's an unspeakable crime, only they never had a problem talking about crimes. Lies. They always had a problem talking about lies.

It's she, and her, and hers, and nothing at all.

But Sherlock...Sherlock thinks it. He thinks, _Mary Morstan._ He thinks, _Mrs. Watson._ He thinks it until it stops feeling like his chest is burning and his mind goes numb.

*

Sherlock's sitting bent over his computer, knees drawn to his chest, dressing gown falling off his shoulder when John passes by with two steaming mugs of tea. Sherlock doesn't give it a second thought, furiously typing an answer to one of Lestrade's e-mails.

John hums something, and places a mug for Sherlock on the table, near Mary's drive. His hand lingers, fingers ghosting over the device, then it's gone from Sherlock's sight.

_Can't be the husband,_ he concludes, which is the precise moment when John's hand touches his shoulder, not the usual friendly pet, but a light touch, almost hesitant, yet undeniably there.

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. John's fingers trace a line down to his back, and Sherlock fights the urge to shake him off. He sits still, counting his breaths. It seems to go on forever, but the clock on Sherlock's computer haven't even changed a minute. In, out, in, out. Down, and back up, and down again, until --

"Stop."

“I’m sorry,” John immediately blurts out, his hand falling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t -- “

Sherlock risks a glance. He looks terrified, pale and wide-eyed and clutching his mug with a force that might break it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and: “Sherlock…”

Sherlock fixes his gown. He walks away.

John doesn’t mention it later.

*

He knew John would want to touch them if he ever saw, because John always wants to touch where Sherlock’s been hurt, like he can fix it by running his doctor-fingers over it alone. Running them over a deep cut after he’s already patched it up, digging them into bruises, just a little bit, just enough for Sherlock to feel it, determining whether or not Sherlock has a broken bone for far longer the necessary, his hand over the entry wound when he thought Sherlock was sleeping, and more and more. It’s a subconscious act that Sherlock tries to not read too much into lest he’ll read the wrong things, the things John does such an effort to stay unaware of, leaving Sherlock heaving alone at night.

What he didn’t know is that it’ll feel like the sun licking its way up his body after months of being locked in all over again. What he didn’t know is that that, more than anything ever before, will make him crave something he has no right to ask for. 

"We should go out," John says. Sherlock's heart skips a beat. "Dinner, maybe." He fights every urge he has to look up from the microscope. "Angelo's?"

There are numerous ways to count the number of words in the English language, and in any one of them there are over a million. Right now Sherlock can't find a single one.

"Alright," John sighs, giving up.

*

John's eyes sometimes linger on him. 

_Don't do this don't do this don't do this don't --_

*

The drive sits in John's pocket. He carries it with him at all times, like a trauma.

Sherlock sees it in the black circles around his eyes, in the creases between his eyebrows, in the pressed line of his mouth.

John's always been a curious one.

*

But it is not his business to push John into choosing what he wants to do, and so they sit and do nothing. Sherlock will soon be able to go out and about again without the risk of collapsing in the middle of the street, but John pretends it’s not coming, that they will both stay locked in 221b forever, that the dangers outside are fake and they can just --

They do _nothing_.

Sherlock’s mind is reeling and it’s only the will to not drive John madder than he already is that helps him rein it. He does want to shoot the walls, he does feels like snapping sometimes when Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs or when John asks him if he’s alright, he does want to tear open the wound in his chest, and yet. It’s a strange feeling, to be able to keep it all inside, but then again, he’s had practice with bottling things up in that last few years, didn’t he?

He doesn’t know what John expects. Because John keeps staring but staying far enough to be out of reach, and John keeps asking if he needs anything and Sherlock is not able to tell him that yes, I do, you, and John keeps staying in and acting as if he’s not bored out of his mind, and John keeps on mulling it over but never deciding what he’d like to do with his wife. Eventually they’ll need to talk about it. Eventually, Sherlock will have to be selfless again, but for now, he lets John pretend, he lets John stay, he lets John into the limbo because at the end of the day, Sherlock keeps staring at the cardigan that’s lying on the back of John’s chair and thinks: you’re home.

*

It’s getting colder. Sherlock walks around wrapped in a blanket and John’s feet are always covered in thick socks. The fireplace burns with a ferocity at night, lighting the flat up with dark angles and stretching shadows.

John didn’t try to get Sherlock to go out together after that failed attempt, even when the weather was so nice Regent’s Park was practically calling to them from across the street. Which is why Sherlock is caught off guard by John’s question, today, when it’s heavily raining and bone-deep cold.

“How about -- “ he clears his throat -- “How about we go out for chinese?”

He had stepped into the living room minutes ago, fiddled with pretend-rearranging the mess that it had become, and tried very hard to not meet Sherlock’s eyes. Now this. Sherlock can sense the ache in his leg, which makes it all the more weird.

He doesn’t know what to say again, so again he shuts up. Only this time he is staring at John in a manner that makes it very clear he is confused.

John shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. He laughs at himself. “I know it’s not the ideal weather but -- “ he exhales -- “well I suppose we can order in and we can -- I just need to -- God, Sherlock, please, can we _talk_ \-- “

Sherlock is out of his chair in an instant, reaching hesitantly to John’s shaking body, and John doesn’t recoil when Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his shoulder.

“John,” he says, voice cracking, but he is trying, he truly is trying to sound calm.

John, to Sherlock’s utter shock, steps closer, right into Sherlock’s chest, and leans his forehead on his shoulder. He is panting, and Sherlock can’t breathe. He drops the blanket to a pool on the floor.

Then a hand snakes around his torso, a finger tracing over the visible tip of one of his scars. Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly, tightly, tightly -- 

And shudders.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry -- “ John whispers, but doesn’t stop. “Can you tell me? Can you tell me everything? I can’t stop -- Can you?” He rolls his head against Sherlock’s body, his other hand clutching at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, bunching it up. “Can I?” he asks, his finger tracing down a line that is too accurate to the small of his back.

Sherlock drops his head to the crook of John’s neck, one hand still resting on his shoulder, the other fidgeting at the side of his body.

“John,” he breathes out.

“Yes.”

Two hands fisted in his shirt, and Sherlock says -- “Please.”

“Tell me.” John swallows, and takes Sherlock’s shirt off.

*

He remembers that dancing lessons with a clarity that terrifies him, the same way he remembers everything he said he had deleted. John’s nervous laughter, the way he didn’t comment on the rigidity of Sherlock’s body or didn’t notice it because he himself was as rigid as ever, the hands, the hands touching him so tentatively, laid on his hip and his shoulder with a fearing carefulness, John’s clumsy feet, John’s endearing apologies when he stepped on Sherlock’s toes, the way they stood so close and he swears to God that the air stood still when they moved together. He tried not to read into John’s smile, but right now, with the memories, with everything that’s been going down lately, he can’t.

John had always adored him, but he thinks...he thinks that smile was _loving_.

He wants to believe that he means next to nothing to John, because it makes his heart less heavy in his chest if he pretends that John would let him burn, but the truth is -- the truth is that they both keep telling lies to themselves about the other because they never stood a chance anyway.

No matter how long they keep dancing, the last dance will not be theirs.

Or so Sherlock thought.

*

So he had told him. About Florence, and Moscow, and Budapest. Serbia. John’s hands roamed his back gently and he was silent, but not the violent kind, no. He was the warm kind of silent, the one that wraps you up in comfort. Sherlock couldn’t look at him. He was astonished that his throat functioned, lying face down on the sofa while John was sitting with spread legs on top of him.

“And at Paris,” he said, deciding it’s not enough to let John touch him, he needs to truly seal it, because that moment of realization that John was not thinking about whether or not to forgive Mary, he was thinking about Sherlock, he pushed Mary aside to think about Sherlock, that moment is -- “At Paris I missed you most.”

John leaned down, down, down, kissed his temple, kissed his brow, twined their fingers, said -- “Sherlock…”

Kissed his mouth. They were sobbing.

Now they don’t talk about it. Sherlock wakes up to John curled in besides him. He goes back to sleep.

*

It takes a week for them to wake up intertwined.

*

Sherlock does think it. He thinks, _you just feel guilty._ He thinks, _I’m not what you want._ He thinks, _I’m not what you need._ He thinks, _why did you marry her?_

But John kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

“You’re having a baby.”

And so John kisses him again.

*

“Burn it,” John says on an afternoon of Indian takeaway and cold feet that are touching under the shared blanket.

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“Just burn it.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks carefully. He’s not exactly certain what does burning the flash drive means. He’s not exactly sure he likes the idea of these things disappearing forever.

“I want her gone.”

Sherlock turns to look at him. John looks back. “Okay,” Sherlock says.

*

The smell of burning plastic is horrific, but the relief on John’s face is worth it. Sherlock looks at the shadows dancing across his beautiful face, at the fire reflecting in his beautiful eyes, and he thinks -- is this it?

John takes him to bed that night. He slips under the cover at the same time Sherlock does and he kisses him and his hands wander and Sherlock pleads, and John gives, and gives, and gives.

“I love you,” Sherlock gasps, back arching off the bed. “John, I love you.”

Frotting against him, John comes.

Sherlock cries out and thinks -- is this it?


End file.
